Imperfect Impostures
by Don'tEvenHaveAGun
Summary: Sigyn held the bowl high over her husband's head, even while the venom ate at her fingertips.
1. Chapter 1

**Imperfect Impostures **

Loki was no stranger to the idea of the simple pleasures of trickery. With honey-green eyes and a charming smile, he'd outwit himself out of the simplest of banter with his brother and his brother's comrades; they would normally indulge in the simplicities of unraveling fabled foreign tales that rooted from wars long past and how many wenches they chased about their chambers.

Though, the God of Mischief and Lies seemed bewildered at the moment - baffled almost, by a small head that bobbed unknowingly behind the brush of herbs, plundering fingertips that graced leaves and berries, humming a tune that was indeed _foreign _to even his ears.

He saw hair as blonde as starlight peek out, and inclined his tall figure over the brush for a better observation; he's introduced to a visual of skin as pale as porcelain and eyes as blue as ocean foam. Though, his curiosities are not returned when the young maiden jolts from her spot with galaxy-induced hair following.

The child stumbles back, holding a wicker-basket close that hooked over her slender arm. Her crownless curl drapes over slender shoulders, lulling and complementing the golden hue of her dress. She's adored with pearl, and hinted with elegance that would sure bloom – if given the proper time to mature. Her lips curl in a fashion of displeasure, and the prince is rather drawn to the twitch of her lips.

The young prince schools his smugness when this tiny girl dares to defy him within the comfort of his mother's gardens, the very gardens that Lady Idunn looks after.

Loki presses his lips firmly together, analyzing the girl for what she's worth, studying the way her sea-mist eyes widen with such horror then narrows with such distain – or possibly the faintest of curiosities to whom he may be and whom he may associate with to wander these grounds.

"Aye, I have no quarrel with thee. I am Sigyn, Daughter of the Goddess Freya. And I certainly do not appreciate the scare. State thee business and move on." The young Lady Sigyn speaks with such confidence, but her voice wavers on that aspect. Tis something her mother must have engraved in her, her mother was a former Valkyrie, after all, and having a weak daughter would show no promise to the Goddess. Of course, it would be the most logical thing to enforce when one is as small as Lady Sigyn.

"My apologies, Lady Sigyn, Daughter of Freya. Though, I do not have to state my business within my own gardens. Being that I, Loki Odinson, reside here." He pulls the thickest of his frowns, fake in every detail. "Now, I present no quarrel, merely fascination, merely curiosity, as to _why _one would be plundering through my mother's garden, and _why _one would be taking from her favorite herb plot. Simple, really."

Sigyn straightens her posture, her mind weaving a conclusion that riddles her shocked and reeling for manners. "Aye, my apologies!" She grabs the hem of her golden gown, bowing to the trickster that finally submerges to his usual dreadful smirk. She did not recognize the young God of Lies, only because she has already become acquainted with his brother at the meeting, while Loki made no attempt to show up. "For a minute there, my prince, I did not recognize thee. You must understand that I was very young that last time I accompanied my mother with my sisters to thy palace."

"Yes, well, one should learn not to forget faces too easily – least they wish to show disrespect to a home they were invited to. You should learn that well, Lady Sigyn. Now, why are you taking from my mother's garden?"

Young Sigyn is quiet for the moment, taking in the trickster prince, watching for any ploy that he wished to pull her into. She was not one that would be so easily tempted to find folly. So she takes her time, planning her words before she dives into a conversation with the prince.

"Thy mother has granted me permission to wander the gardens and to pick from the herbs rather than the trees that my sister, Idunn, wife to Bragi, tends to."

"Now, is Idunn around at the moment?"

"Nay, my prince. My sister is watching the youngest of my sisters with her husband. You were expecting her?"

"And what of thy mother and the older of her offspring?"

Sigyn watches the prince, her eyes narrowing skeptically to the air of suspicion. Though, the young maiden answers any questions he asks; he is her prince, after all. "She is seen in the company of thy mother, the All-Mother, of course. Along with my older sisters."

"And why not thee? Surely the older girls would be in the presences of their mother and my mother, and not captivated by plants in the palace gardens."

"Nay, good prince. I am three years shy before I am allowed to mingle with the court alongside my mother and yours."

"You are a babe?" The prince chuckles at the thought of holding a conversation with a child. Though, her intelligent betrays her age, and eludes to something much older than he suspected.

"I am not a child, mind thee." Sigyn snaps, growing irritated of being pulled from her collecting to be distracted by the Prince of Lies.

"I mind no one, fair Sigyn, Better for thee to mind me, rather I mind you. But, you've supplied me a great deal of entertainment – so I'll let your mannerism slide. That, and you can give me whatever you've stowed away in your basket as payment to your rudeness."

"What? Why?!" Sigyn takes a step back from the prince, her bare feet churning fresh soil from underneath her. She bundles her basket closer to her, the silk of her gold dress blocking the view its contents. It has taken her hours to formulate the perfect ingredients in her wicker-basket, and she had no desire to start over new for a pompous prince.

"You dare question your prince, Sigyn?" Loki's smile takes a turn for wicked, his malicious green eyes stalking her. His leather boots follow her steps. He extends a hand out to her, expecting her to give in to his demands. He knows she fears him. He can tell by her ocean eyes that lacked its once abundant confidence. "You know – such a crime is considered treason."

"For denying you access to my basket? Aye, I consider it tyranny!" Sigyn is no flower child. While she is quick to forgiveness and the illusion of gentleness, she is not ashamed to defend herself. She is a woman, and is not a weak maiden that blushed to the first compliment she receives.

"Perhaps. My, am I fond of your personality. Too bad others do not follow thy example. But, that is where my flattery ends and my irritation begins. The basket, young Sigyn, I won't ask again."

"No." She holds her ground, refusing to budge from her plot of grass. She dares him to step closer, and he humors her by doing so.

"No?" Loki laughs hard at that quick statement. He certainly didn't understand the standing word of _No. _The word can be considered powerful, something to not be overlook. The term _no _has built empires, as well has brought them down.

Loki grabs the handle of Sigyn's wicker-basket, jerking the basket to him. The child holds strong, tightening her arm around the handle and pulling back from his motion. She knows she is not as strong as the prince, but she would not go down without a fight.

"Give it up, Sigyn. Surely you do not believe –," That was all the young prince was able to get out before he was granted the vision of Sigyn balling her free hand into a fist and striking upwards. Her knuckle clips his nose; the force was not enough to tumble him, but enough to shock him into letting go of the basket and covering his nose.

"You hit me!" Loki choked out, watching bright crimson flash against Sigyn's white knuckle. He then realizes that it is not Sigyn's blood that stained her own skin, _but his. _

The girl says nothing, she simply gathers her things and wipes his blood off on her golden silk. Sigyn does not care if the fabric stales from his coloring, she only knows she's won and she has every right to grab her basket and walk off.

When she leaves, Loki is bewitched. He waits till her silhouette vanishes. The young prince would smile, a terrible smile, enthralled by her character. While others would have given in to demand, she protected hers.

_Oh, he liked her. _

**A/N: I will not list Sigyn as OC. She's not. Sigyn in Norseman Mythology was Loki's life, and was also added in the Marvel series. (In which I own none of this) **

**This series will be small, and will reflect on Sigyn's dabbles. (Probably 5 or so, or I may upload them all at once.) Sigyn is a strong individual and not a wallflower that people claim her to be. She does not believe to better Loki, she believes that Loki should take care of himself; she will stand by him, though. She is his wife and she is the goddess of fidelity: Faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief. Sexual faithfulness to a spouse or partner. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Imperfect Impostures **

Her smile curves into something delightful when she is alone. When one should be lucky enough to watch the grace of her face shift into something pleasant, the action is almost intimate, completely benevolent. Her smiles are rare within the court, for her mother has reminded her to act like a lady and not a lover who's already found the reason to love.

Sigyn smiles in secret. She smiles when her eyes grace over words that are long but dead to her, she smiles against the warmth of morn that challenges her beauty, she smiles even when someone has forsaken her – smiling between chilled sobs, and obstructed by her starlight hair that hides her fragility. Her smile is dulling, and can be rather haunting if given the moment.

Sigyn's voice is charming upon the ears, cradling lullabies of muttered Vanir; her people were known for their wisdom and their ability to see into the future, foresight, and knowing the stars before they are charted in the skies. She's humorous for her half-dwarven heritage, and her love for the color gold is notorious. She'll sing, but she sings of the romances of wars, and how mothers have never lost their sons to a blight. She'll talk, but these words are sacred and soft, but unyielding when she is scorn. She'll yell when she knows she's right. She'll scream when all else fails and the world shuts her off.

She's elegant, eloquent in her own way.

She is violent, quick with her hands that could heal and could kill – if given the proper reasoning.

She is forgiving, loyal in a sense for anyone who makes a deal with her. She cannot lie, for that is her nature as a Goddess of Fidelity. She'll stay even while others wrong her, but she takes them out before she swears any form of allegiance with them.

Sigyn's fingers pluck bow strings, they slide arrows with ease; she can hunt, she can dare a man to trifle her if they please. Of course, she gives heed before she jumps to conclusions. Her mother's words would ring in her ears: _Be polite first, because you can always be mean later, but once you've been mean to someone, they won't believe the nice anymore. So be nice, be nice, until it's time to stop being nice, then destroy them. _

She is giving, and so her tale begins; she sometimes wishes that it could all end with the grace of her hand. She maps out magic: her golden touch. She knows no magic that promises death, but only to rejoice healing and life. Her kisses bring back life, as they do for laughing of the kind. When soldiers receive her paled touch, they'd open their eyes to something divine.

Loki can't help but realize how much different she is compared to him.

Her hands write beautiful analogies, spun from fancy tales that warm hearts; her tales include the stories of every star that hangs around the moon like lovely pearl; reciting how the ash-face moon may have a chance to rekindle a love, while she dies every night just so the sun may have a chance to hang in her place.

Loki's is morbid, hell-ridden and forgettable – or a sort that one strives to forget about. His hands write wrongs, malicious to every detail; his are filled with horror, and admits it so to the point of gore; tricks are repaid for gold that are stained in some fool's blood or a silent soul that wishes to die within the void just after his fleet dies around him.

**-x-**

"Tricky fox deserved what he had comin' to him," said Sif, crossing her arms over chest, huffing out in annoyance in how Loki's blood seemed to stain the leather of her gauntlets. "Though, one should note the foolishness of disguising oneself as a fox during a hunt." The warrior's boots scuffled the marble floor of Sigyn's study, relaxing slowly to the aroma of jasmine incense that lingered heavily.

"A fox, Loki? Truly?" Sigyn's interest is slightly piqued by the smug expression Loki colors himself with. The healer is quick to sigh, quickly dunking her hands in her water basin then drying her hands off on the front of her apron. The heel of her bare foot hooks underneath her wooden stool, dragging the furniture with her and in front of Loki's chair. "Now, why would one take the shape of a fox when their pelts around this time would fetch a fair price on the market? Perhaps you aimed for a joke – and while that is all well – I wouldn't consider it wise, good prince."

"Wise? Nay, Lady Sigyn. I was merely curious in testing The Warrior Three and Lady Sif in their hunting prowess after a few pints. As you can see, Lady Sigyn, I should not have questioned their expertise -,"

"Including Lady Sif's good aim, little fox." Sigyn countered, inspecting the arrowhead that protruded from Loki's shoulder, piercing through his tunic and the thick emerald of his coat. Her fingers ran up the oak of the arrow and Loki cringed to the slight shift. "Lovely. Now, I'll have to twiddle the arrow out with a blade and sew you up. Aye, trust me prince, thou be right as rain after I'm done with thee."

"You're enjoying this, I can tell."

"Perhaps, though, your company would be more pleasurable if you learned to bite your tongue while I'm trying to work on you."

"Oh, I happen to love it when you talk dirty to me. Please, Lady Sigyn, degrade me with your hurtful words again."

Sigyn's lips thinned, her fingers tightening around the shaft of the arrow. Loki winced, grounding his teeth to the slight jerk of the arrow, "Or perhaps silence would be more favorable. What says you, Lady Sigyn?"

"And what a beautiful suggestion, my prince." Her hateful touch slackened, nodding to the three men and the female warrior that crowded her, "Your prince will survive. No need to worry. But I'm sad to say that you must all leave while I work, thank you."

Silence plagues Sigyn's study when the rowdy bunch departs. Sigyn falls into a studied silence, dancing about from shelves and plucking herbs from old wicker-baskets. Her fingers brush against wheat, looming over purple flowers that held a bulb of adolescence, rummaging through thick leaves that snapped with a thick green substance. There's an air of grace as her bare feet skim across the marble floor, finding everything essential to begin her plan.

"You are going to remove the arrowhead, right? I can't sit here all day."

"Patience, prince. I must remedy a broth, extract the arrowhead safely, and then lace a silk weave over your wound."

"And so professional. A lot different from what I can recall from our first meeting, m'lady. You, now, remedy my nerves with your voice and not your fist."

"I can go back to my old aliments, good prince. I'm only fit to serve you." Sigyn readies her supplies, tossing the wheat and the purple hue flower into the grinder. Her hands make work to pull the pungent smell from the flower, adding a dash of honey into the mix. "Here, drink this. It will be hard to swallow down, but this should easy you."

He accepts the stone bowl, hesitantly holding the rim to his lips. "Oh, no. I was never partial to your method in healing the weak, Lady Sigyn, but I was happy to learn that you've eased in your brutal caretaking."

"Oh, mean nothing from that, my prince. That method of treating was only reserved for you."

Loki grimly smiled, slowly drinking whatever Sigyn had offered him. His features bled dry from the remedy that she offered, and he swore that he would throw up whatever mystery she gave him. His sharp eyes quickly avert back to the sunny healer, watching her pull her blade from one of the pockets of her apron.

"Poison me and then slit my throat? My, there are many charms to you."

"One can only hope, aye? No, no, I'm simply going to cut away at your clothing to get a better handle on the arrow. I need to see what I'm dealing with before I plunge into folly."

Sigyn cuts away at cloth, her blade slowly moving through the fabric, watching the way her blade clashes against the orange glow of her candlestick that illuminated hauntingly from one of her shelves that are flooded with vegetation and mistakes. She frays his material, a steady line butchering its way to the shoulder. Loki's jaw clenches when her blade accidently nudges the shaft of the arrow, leaving Sigyn to pull away at the fabric that's staled from his blood and rough to the touch with her precautions fingers.

She moves the blade away, only to pull one of her stray baskets closer to her. She leans down and rummages for her black silk twine that would easily move through flesh, and a fresh needle that's never seen the gore of skin; she quickly loops the thread and sets it in her lap. She's enchanted her twine, but the pain never dulls once the procedure comes to play.

She steadies her hands, not a twitch to be found in her fluid movement in wrapping her slender digits around the shaft of the arrowhead. "Your other hand may grab onto my apron if the pain is too much, my prince." Sigyn's voice is devoid from her once scorn, her ocean eyes silently warning him of her action; her simple sympathy leaves Loki breathless and on edge when she begins to uproot the arrow from his flesh and bone.

There's an audible gasp, and Loki wordlessly seeks comfort from his childhood friend that sought him more of a fiend than anything. His good hand grips at Sigyn's virgin white apron, twisting hard against the fabric. Sigyn's stance roots to the floor for support, pulling hard against the shaft. The arrow pulls from flesh and leaves crimson in its wake.

For a moment, Loki feels pity when his blood taints her white apron. And after a second longer, he feels nothing but remorse for himself when blinding pain floods him.

Sigyn bundles an excess of cloth, holding true to the wound and hoping to clot the opening before sealing and cleaning it. Her pressure is hard, and all that Loki can do is watch her quick movement and her moment of counting down till it's safe to remove the cloth.

She finally has the advantage to weave the silk thread through his flesh, cleaning her work, and smothering a thick green substance over the stitching from a plant that she broke open.

Her study seeks refuge to the familiar sense of silence again. And for the longest time, Loki has the opportunity to watch the goddess before him.

She speaks vile intent, but her words could never compare to the beauty of her better nature. This feeling of possession is powerful to Loki. Selfishly, Loki overstays his welcome just to watch her pull down tomes from high nooks and clutter her own workspace in plants and the sweet smell of honey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Imperfect Impostures**

"Lady Sigyn, please tell us another tale! Thou are the best when it comes to stories."

It was not uncommon that children would be so drawn to the healers. Healers seemed to be the honey that attracted the busy bees of children; they were delicate, they were so keen to a woman's touch that reminded them all of something maternal and beautiful. It was an enigma why a smile of a healer – a complete stranger – would gander such unneeded attention. Though, it was not unwelcoming.

Healers are supposed to cast away evils; they would sacrifice their own lives if the mainline of defense faltered. They are trained to live modestly, to be punctual and nurturing. One should never expect anything less from a healer, they are warriors in their own ways and not weak-willed maidens that dress in white and smell of honey and jasmine. _Even if Sigyn really did linger of honey and jasmine. _

Perhaps it was just Sigyn; she had a way of drawling people in to her lovely web, charming people with her subtle ways of going through life. Young boys babbled in her wake, drinking in her stories of war that only showed the boon at the end. Young girls envied and adored her, they would listen to her weaving tales, and taking turns to braid her starlight hair that extended to the small of her back.

"A story," Sigyn inquired with a laugh, pulling her hands from the virginal color of her apron that once kept her hands warm. "And what type of story does the little ones wish for me to recite?"

The children are close behind her, following on her heels; her bare feet skim over lush pasture, pulling the hem of her dress up to not taint the thin fabric of her apparel. Sigyn leads the children to a clearing, her favorite place underneath the greenery and away from the royal hunting grounds.

"A romance!" The girls paraded, stumbling to Sigyn's side.

"Ew, no!" The older of the boys, Giermund, speaks with such distain. His shaggy brown hair curls before his blue-eyed vision, obscuring his outlook to look up at the healer.

Sigyn merely smiles when she hears the other girls protest to his unpopular opinion. Still, Giermund refuses to recoil to these young girls' sneers and he continues on, "I'd rather hear another one of your war stories, Lady Sigyn. Y-you're simply the best at telling war stories, not even my father can compare to thy skill."

"Is that so," Sigyn hums, finding a place within the brush of long-bladed grass, beckoning the children to follow her. "Aye, daring Giermund, I am flattered - but I wouldn't dare compare myself to thy father; he's fought his fair share of battles, while I am nothing but a battle maiden that hasn't seen her share of war yet. I'm far too fresh to the usage of war – tis my mother whose blessed me with these wild tales and my years of rummaging the archives." Sigyn chirped with a graceful laugh, holding her fingers to her lips for the moment. "I am far too young, I am only a few centuries older than thee, humble Giermund."

Giermund twiddles with a few strays of grass, bumped by several side shoulders from his teasing friends. His head lowers and brown hair follows; he resorted to an impish nature, slack-jawed and embarrassed by the beauty of the healer.

"But -," Sigyn begins and her hands spread out against the calm air of void, she manifests a lulling gold smog, quickly the smog takes form, illustrating her tale for the children to follow. With doe eyes, the children all gasp, enthralled by the calming presences of Sigyn's magic, giving off a warm glow.

A silhouette of a woman's body emerges from Sigyn's golden fog; with slow movements, the fog woman also moves with such fluid grace, calling the children to huddle near and to listen closely.

"I have a story that will appease the whole lot. Have thee ever heard the tale of the face that launched a thousand ships?" The children say nothing, and she assumes the silence gives way to her question. Sigyn's fingers twitch under the dulling magic, and the fog woman takes a bow to the children.

Sigyn's palms close and the image of the woman disappears, cloudless, and Sigyn tries again – only to introduce new characters. "Long ago, in another time, in another realm, a wedding is held for a king and his bride, a sea-nymph named Thetis." The fog of Sigyn's takes root, the shimmer of her magic hypnotizes the children. "They invite all the gods, of other realms, of holy kingdoms high above mountains and deep within oceans – except the Goddess of Discord: Eris. When Eris finds out about their neglect, she introduces her own form of chaos at the banquet halls with a golden apple."

Sigyn's magic blossoms into fire, then erupts to the shape of a simple gold apple that floats over the delicate touch of her fingers, dancing, rotating its lore. "Inscribed into the apple, etched against the golden skin of the fruit, reads, "For the Fairest." Vain goddesses argue over who deserved the apple and the field is narrowed down to the Goddess of Wisdom and War, The Goddess of Love and Beauty, and The Goddess of all Gods and of Marriage. These three goddesses are suggested to find a judge, a simple mortal that goes by Paris. They bribe Paris: The Goddess of Marriage promises power, The Goddess of Wisdom promises constant success in battles – but the Goddess of Love promises what every man fancies: The most beautiful woman in the world."

"That's simple," One child interrupts, "That would be you, Sigyn."

Sigyn's magic dies, but her laugher erupts into full mirth. "How charming, but I must remind thee that I have no part of this tale. This was a story I picked up while studying the lives of other realms."

Sigyn clears her throat, and she raises her hands again to resume the tale; confidence brims her eyes, and her tale comes easier to her. The woman in the fog appears again with the wave of Sigyn's hand. "Paris choses The Goddess of Love's proposal, and he is granted Helen. Unfortunately, the most beautiful woman in the world is already married to a King named Menelaus of Sparta. With the Goddess of Love's help, Paris betrays Menelaus's hospitality during an invitation and kidnaps Helen, bringing her back with him to Troy; his home."

Sigyn's magic lights up like a firework, smashing down to the ground in a heap of ash and smog; the ash remains in motion, churning like black seas, birthing vessels that ignites a war upon the vast sea. These boats move through grave, rocking waters; ghost ships become active and the experience Sigyn shows to the children is haunting in a beautiful way. "The face that launched a thousand ships. A war is started over a woman, and many children and wives lost husbands and fathers for this foolish folly. Love is a beautiful thing, aye? True. But when is love truly worth it – compared to lust that these two men felt? They say the war lasts for ten years. Ten long years."

"And what of Paris? How about the most beautiful woman in the world? Wait, what happens to the King of Sparta?" One child asks meekly, recoiling to the look Sigyn gives.

"Fair question, child." Sigyn abolishes the sails, she drains the sea of ash. "Paris is wounded in combat with a man named Philoctretes. Helen makes her way to Mount Ida to beg Paris's first wife, the nymph Oenone, to heal him. However, Paris's previous wife is still bitter with him and denies Helen's wish. Helen returns to Troy alone, where Paris dies the same day. Later, Helen marries Paris's brother: Deiphobus – then was murdered by Menelaus during a raid of Troy."

The children are all quiet for a long time, giving Sigyn time to withdraw her magic, capturing the gold fog in her hands and smothering it.

"I believe there is a lot to learn from tales of other realms. It's a blessing, truly, but a curse all the same. It shows are better natures, and -,"

Sigyn doesn't get another word in before she quickly analyzes the faces that were no longer listening to her. Instead, they all stare behind her, multiple eyes blurred in disbelief, leaving some to shriek and to holler. Many ran away from Sigyn, retreating to the thick of forest and back home.

Sigyn, baffled, slowly turns around; she is greeted by the form of a snake that's a foot taller than her. The snake is thick and green, eyes plagued with a gold hint. Venom drapes from the open-cave of the creatures mouth, showing fangs and baring promise to use them.

Sigyn clenches her fists and she swallows down words that were sure to slur. Not out of fear. More out of anger.

"Prince Loki!" Sigyn's temper rises, her voice that was once steady and wise, becomes shrill and unpleasant. Her healer's veil is pulled from her head playfully when Loki retorts to his normal form, chuckling fondly down at the girl that found nothing humorous about the situation.

"Well, I rather enjoyed thy tale, Lady Sigyn. Though, it seems the children were not too thrilled over the outcome."


End file.
